Tyson and me

Shocking as this may be to some, in between the rigorous training, I do on occasion find time to devote to other pursuits, one of them being volunteering for a Doberman rescue organization. While originally when I signed on I envisioned helping out just with home visits, transport, etc., several foster dogs later, I can clearly be placed in the “sucker” category, as someone who can’t say no when the plea for foster homes goes out.

Naturally, I am taking my life into my own hands by working with this particular breed. Apparently they’re genetic freaks in that their skulls stop growing but their brains don’t, and eventually their brains “explode,” leading the dog to just snap. Who knew? Granted, I’ve never seen this happen or have heard of it actually happening, but this has been bandied about on the internet, so it must be true. And while my own Hudson in all his 13.5 years never once even showed his teeth to anyone, and so far all of my foster boys (“temps” as I call them) have been big smushy snugglebunnies......all of this must be an aberration. Clearly I have just been very very lucky.

My latest is Tyson, a Doberman who fits the “Omen” stereotype, meaning he’s big, black, has cropped ears, looks like he’s been unleashed from Hades, that sort of thing. For fun I call him Cerberus, but I try to stay on his good side, so that......

(brb)

Sorry for the interruption. Tyson came up to me as I was typing and in his typical fashion, plunked his big head on my chest and looked up at me adoringly. No fool I, I immediately went to get him a biscuit, as I was sure that his next move would have involved going for my jugular. This afternoon we will attempt to go for a run, and I just pray that this brain exploding thing doesn’t happen when we’re out and about. That could get messy.

First five minutes

We’re barely away from my house, when the first miracle happens. Yes, it’s true – we get to a stop sign, and.......the car actually stops! Not only that, but the car sees us and WAVES US THROUGH. I shall alert the media immediately upon our return to the house. The only explanation I can think of is that the mere sight of Tyson brings to mind the film Jaws, and the driver envisions the beast lunging at the car, ripping it to shreds, much like a great white would do. Or, umm, the land shark version of a great white.

Ten minutes later

We’re still running along, and this is when I first see evidence of Tyson’s Special Powers, whereby he can make people turn to stone instantly. There’s a man working on his car, and when he sees us, he stops moving entirely, manages to choke out a “nicedogishefriendly” in one rushed sentence, but even when I say yes, he still doesn’t move. Odd.

Still running

This is what I like about living in the city – it’s a great place to see and experience Darwinism at its finest. We’re going along and up ahead a bit, we see a woman jogging while pushing a stroller.....while also hanging onto a big German Shepherd Dog on a leash. Tyson pays them no attention (perhaps his brain is growing as he thinks about an attack?), but the GSD is going nuts, pulling the woman who has a frantic look on her idiot face. I debate whether or not we should cross the street – after all, it’s her dog that’s causing all the commotion while Tyson is perfectly well-behaved – but in the end I take pity and decide I don’t have time to stick around as the stroller falls over, the dog stomps on the baby or wraps the leash around baby’s neck, etc. Another time.


Running past a school that has just let out

This is where things really get fun, and all sorts of magical things start happening. As we approach a gaggle of children and their parents, the clutching of kids to bosoms and looks of fear are already starting, and with a sigh, I go with Tyson into the street so that we can move around this herd of cows a bit more quickly, and at the same time, an SUV comes up behind us. But instead of roaring around us with a scant inch of clearance, as all vehicles in Chicago are apparently required to do, the SUV actually just putters along patiently, no honking or anything, inching forward until we get back on the sidewalk. Weird.

Then I discover that Tyson’s magic extends to the silencing of whiny children. Silenced because their faces are pushed into their parents’ sides so as to not lay eyes on the happy but clearly vicious dog trotting along blithely. My “favorite” woman is the one who takes her child and pushes her face first into a fence, and then puts her own bulky self between said child and me and the dog. Though perhaps she was just doing a reenactment of the last scene from the Blair Witch Project? She couldn’t possibly be wanting to raise her child to be scared of anything and everything, could she?

The coup de gráce comes next, as I notice men cowering in fear. Up ahead a bit there’s a guy standing against a fence, waiting for someone. As soon as he sees us, he starts shaking his head and saying something – so of course I stop and ask him what he’s saying, and all I get are snippets of “not movin’ from this fence, no way” and “ no way no how so you say” babble in response to my “he’s friendly” comment. In the meantime, Tyson is leaning up against the guy hoping to be petted.....or perhaps attempting to kill him by cutting off his circulation? Cunning dog.

Still running

We come across one brave woman who upon seeing Tyson sniffing at a leaf, stops to pet him and ooh and aah, not realizing the grave danger she’s putting herself in. The Beast laps it up, licking her face, wagging his stubby little tail so hard he might fall over – in other words, lulling her into a false sense of security. We chat about rescue dogs, and she tells me about her friends who have a crazy Dalmation, and others who have a small yap dog that’s a complete terror. Or rather, was. “When they called us recently to tell us the dog had passed away, I had to pretend to be sympathetic, while all I could think was THANK GOD.” In the meantime, the vicious Dobe is making friends with other people and children walking by. Little do they know.

The home stretch

We’re nearing home, and I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief that we’ll make it back with Tyson’s head intact, when we start heading past a lot with construction workers putting up yet another ugly house. They’re bustling across the sidewalk, trying to time it just so such that they can splatter mud on unsuspecting passersby, but they see us and suddenly halt as if frozen in time, too fearful to even make rude comments. For good measure, as we’re going past and Tyson looks like he wants to sniff happily at someone, I loudly proclaim “Cerberus! No more construction workers today - you’ll spoil your appetite!” You could hear a pin drop.

So, we’ve now made it back, and Tyson is tucked under his blankie taking a nap, snoring, no doubt saving up his energy for some later sneak attack and dreaming about mayhem and bloodshed. Oh sure, he’s been a perfect dog while he’s been here, sweet and loving, but since he looks so darn mean, well, it’s just a matter of time before Disaster Strikes. I will just have to remain ever alert, and plan for the day when........lo, what’s this? Must go – Tyson has woken up and has come to me with his little stuffed cow in his mouth, and I worry as to what might happen if I don’t give in to his demands to play tug-of-war. I fear for my life as it is.